


A Different Sun Under Which We Speak

by knockout_mouse



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, F/M, Harry D. S. Goodsir Lives, Historical References, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29570973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockout_mouse/pseuds/knockout_mouse
Summary: It is 1850, and Robert Goodsir combs the barren rocks of King William Land to try and find his long-missing brother.It has been two years, and Harry Goodsir does not know if "home" has a meaning anymore.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna, Harry D.S. Goodsir & Robert A. Goodsir
Kudos: 20





	A Different Sun Under Which We Speak

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off a [tumblr post](https://toomanyassassins.tumblr.com/post/643335162915078144/so-in-1850-harry-goodsirs-younger-brother) I made after reading Robert Goodsir's journal about trying to find his lost brother:
> 
> "so in 1850, Harry Goodsir's younger brother, Robert Goodsir, was on his second expedition into the Arctic ( _second!_ ) to try and find any signs of his brother's whereabouts or fate. he describes the search party finding a cairn made of the Goldner cans, stacked 9ft high, and being excited because he and his fellow men knew they were now on the trail of the Franklin expedition.  
> and then one of the crew spots three shapes in the distance and calls out " _Men! Men_!". they think they've spotted three men, just along the horizon.  
> Robert is so so excited, he's casting all his equipment aside and _bolting_ across the landscape towards these shapes, thinking first that they might be men, then realizing they can't be, and hoping that they are huts ( _"deluding myself into the fond fancy that a filmy smoke rose from one or all of them"_ ), and then he gets there...  
> and its three gravestones. the Beechy Three.  
> like... god can you _imagine_ "
> 
> anyway, i had too many angsty feels about it and decided to write Robert and Harry a happy ending.

As he attempts to cinch his coat tighter around his neck, Robert A. Goodsir looks up at the empty pale sky of King William Land, and promises to himself that the moment he leaves this place he will never set eyes upon such a dismal landscape again.

When they’d first come up upon the shores of the Arctic Archipelagoes, he and the others onboard the _Lady Franklin_ and _Sophia_ had been quite excited. It’d been months of open ocean, nothing that would help point to where _Terror_ and _Erebus_ had gone, and so the rocks and shoals were a welcome sight. 

But now they are several miles inland, feet sore from the jagged chunks of rocks that coat the land in every direction, and they’ve found no tangible sign of the Franklin expedition, past the terrible fateful morning on Beechey Island.

He shudders at the thought, pulling his bag tight over his shoulder.

“Whoa!” calls the booming voice of a large Scandinavian named Mr. Petersen, from atop his spot driving the sled dogs. The dogs pull abruptly to a halt, their many fluffy heads panting in the icy wind as they idly watch their master and the captain converse on top of a hill. Robert cannot hear their voices, but it is clear from their ducked heads that something has caught their attention.

“Goodsir!” Captain Stewart calls, nodding towards him. Robert snaps to attention, fingers gripping the strap of his bag as he runs up to meet them. 

Captain Stewart points out towards the horizon, “Your telescope, Mr. Goodsir, if you will.”

Robert nods and shuffles awkwardly with his bag, searching for the lovely Dollond telescope Lady Franklin had gifted him for his journey. It sits carefully tucked up inside, and he snatches it out with a practiced flip, squinting into the direction Captain Stewart is pointing towards. He blinks, then squints again, and his heart stutters in his chest.

“It… it is Netsilik, sir.” he says excitedly, smile tugging at his lips as he tries so very hard to parse out further detail. The figures in the distance remain stubbornly small and blurry, but their thick fur coats are unmistakable, as are the hunting spears they each carry.

Captain Stewart nods, “As I suspected. Mr. Petersen, do you suggest we approach these men?”

Robert glances over at the enormous man, whom he once found quite intimidating, until he saw how the man besottedly frets over his dogs. Petersen is also the only one among the search party who can translate the Inuit language. He peers at the small dots on the horizon and slowly nods, “They may know somethings. Or have stories.”

Robert and Captain Stewart both frown. _Stories_ , indeed, have been found amongst the precious few Inuit they’ve passed, and all of them have been grim. Men with shallow faces stumbling across the landscape. Other stories… which Robert refuses to believe.

“Well then,” the captain sighs, tilting his head towards the distant figures, “We should head out quickly, I think. And hope they do not see us and decide to run the other away.”

The men nod, trading apprehensive glances between themselves and the horizon, and with a sharp command, the party presses forward.

\----------

The past winter in Nunavut had been harsh.

Not that the others before it were any better, as evidenced by the fact that both the Franklin expedition crew and the neighboring Inuit had struggled to find food. But those winters saw as much more naive Harry; one who still saw beauty in humanity, who found hope in the strength of his captains. Who thought this adventure would end in some form of rescue.

Now it is just him, Silna, and Captain Crozier, who they’d found near death and connected to Tuunbaq by an unbreakable chain. After some tense discussion, he and Silna had agreed the only way to free the poor man would be to cut off his hand, and from there build a shelter and tend to the wound.

There’d been a couple days where Harry was quite certain he would be the only remaining survivor of the expedition, Crozier’s breaths coming too fast and shallow.

When he finally woke up, Harry was there, as Crozier looked him in the eye and had to ask if anyone else had survived. And later, to insist on calling him Francis, because there was nothing left for him to be captain of, after moving from one ravaged camp to the next and finding only the dead and the dying.

So this past winter had certainly not been the _worst_ of Harry Goodsir’s life. But it was harsh all the same.

“It might take years for the land to recover.” Harry muses, his Inuktitut still rough, but in a way that Silna seems to find amusing. They have developed a sort of sign language between them, after he’d left with her following the disastrous attack on her fellow Inuit. He’d started their relationship with a trembling “ _mamianaq”... “I’m sorry”_. And from there, it had sprung two stumbling parallel lines of broken language: one his uncertain tongue, and the other her uncertain hands.

It is enough though, especially after two years huddled together for survival, having to learn how to build an igloo and hunt seals: a task which they have both set out to try and accomplish on this blustery day.

Silna nods off towards the direction of the sea, only a few miles away and within easy reach for lunchtime. She points to her head – _been thinking_ – then sticks her index finger out from the tip of her nose. Harry laughs, earning him one of her smiles. It is by far one of his favorite signs that she’s come up with: _qilalugaq_ or narwhal.

“Maybe. Though I wouldn’t know how to catch one.” Harry replies. 

Silna pauses, then points at him, saying a slightly mumbled version of the Inuktitut word for “bait”. 

“ _Bait!_ Oh I see now.” Harry makes a show of pouting, “All this time you’ve kept me around just so I can be used as a narwhal’s…” he pauses, frowning, “uhh… <pincushion _ >_?”

Silna raises her eyebrows in confusion.

He shakes his head and offers, “ _Kakpik_ ,” pretending to stab himself through the middle with an exaggerated groan. The meaning must be clear enough: Silna laughs, a sound that echoes off the land like a clear blue sky.

Harry grins, before tugging his coat tighter around him and continuing their walk towards the sea. It is nice to be able to joke with her, after years of hardship, having to make dark decisions that he knew one way or another would end with someone’s death. He is eternally grateful to have made the choice to leave the men on that fateful day, but it had been enormously difficult. After all, both doctors had died during Carnivale, and there were good men who would no doubt have needed his care on the long trek. But even as the silhouette of Terror Camp faded into the distance, he’d gotten the distinct feeling he was like Lot’s wife looking back at the city of Sodom, and if he did not keep walking away then he would surely perish as well.

There is an insistent tap on his shoulder, and he looks up, to where Silna’s hand points towards the north-east. His heart stutters, as he squints against the blinding white of the rocky terrain at a dark blob on the top of a hill. He’s long since gotten over the instinctive fear that it is somehow Tunnbaq, arising from the dead to once again haunt them. Now, the feeling in his chest is meager hope.

“Another tribe? Or…” a lump settles in his throat, “white men?”

Silna shrugs, but her eyes are clouded with worry. They have ventured out this far specifically because there are no tribes nearby, both in hope of untapped food sources, as well as Silna’s permanent banishment. If the group is Inuit, she and Harry will need to move elsewhere, and if it is white men…

Silna curves a half-circle in the air, gesturing down to a spot not far from where they are standing. _Camp_. They can wait till whoever it is either leaves or comes closer, and make a further judgement from there.

“Good idea.” Harry says, and they set about smoothing the earth for where a fire will be placed as the sun sets.

\----------

Of all the things Robert expects the mysterious Netsilik to do, the one he has not somehow expected is that they would simply stop.

The search party had just passed over the hill, the full number of them coming into view of the Inuit, when the distant pair had stopped walking and stared at them. Eventually, they seem to settle into making what is probably a fire. 

Robert is almost nervous to look through his telescope, though for what reason he cannot say, other than he knows very little about the Netsilik, and hopes their stopping is a sign of peace.

“Mr. Petersen,” he asks the man as he tries to keep stride with the jogging dogs, “Are the Netsilik usually friendly towards complete strangers?”

Petersen raises a brow at him, but shrugs, “Depend. Plan on shooting?”

Roberts’ eyes grow wide, “What? Of course not!”

Another shrug, “Then probably friendly.”

Robert sighs, and slows his pace, allowing the dogsled to move on ahead. His gaze drifts back over to what is now a growing dot of fire against the creeping darkness. No matter what is waiting for them, at the very least they will be warm.

\----------

The first time Robert sees Harry, he is standing along the shore of Beechey Island, dressed in uniform and waiting for him with a wide smile. It is, of course, a hallucination, one that will come to haunt Robert amongst his dreams, and in the dark outside his tent, but that first time seems so real. Harry is so easy to picture, along with two more of his fellow men, waiting for them on the horizon as little black silhouettes.

They’d found a cairn, fashioned out of the canned tins the expedition had taken with them, and filled with gravel to weigh them down. Nothing had been inside, unfortunately, but Robert and the others were excited all the same. Here was a clear trail, a signpost of Harry’s existence.

And then Petersen calls out in his great, loud voice, “Mans! Mans!” and that had been it. Three figures on the horizon, and Robert forgets everything else. He tears off his equipment, casting aside even his expensive telescope, which he’d til then treated with care, and bolting across the shore with arms wide and lungs pumping.

Then it becomes clear these are no men that Petersen has spotted, but perhaps little huts. Yes! Huts with filmy smoke rolling out of them, like the charcoal sketches he’d seen sailors make from expeditions past. Perhaps inside there will be men cooking up some of those Goldner cans, turning to him with joyous expressions as he rushes up to their door.

But then… no. Too small to be huts. No smoke either: another figment of his imagination. And as he finally reaches the spot, body heaving with sharp breaths and legs shaking under him, he realizes what he is looking at.

Three graves. Small, humble wooden boards, painted black. Stark against the pale Arctic sky.

It takes him a moment to make his feet move again. He is facing the back of the gravemarkers. Or, perhaps there will be no names on them at all? But if there are… 

He steps around to look at the other side, and his heart sinks. Names, carved in white.

“Goodsir! Mr. Goodsir, what is it?” Captain Stewart asks, and by then it must be clear to the man what the objects in question are. Rather, the captain’s voice holds a somber note. He is not asking the objects’ purpose… he is asking for names.

Robert wets his cracked lips, “John Torrington, William Braine, and John Hartnell.” The names settle in his mind, and for a brief moment he smiles, absurdly happy that none of these men are Harry. 

He cannot help his sigh of relief, as he steps back to let the other men look. His eyes begin to water.

It is not good news. Whatever killed these men could’ve easily ended up killing his brother. There is no guarantee that Harry is alive, just that they now know the ships have passed through here. But it is enough for him. He has learned from his previous voyage to take any sign of the expedition’s existence as a sign of hope. Otherwise, the wondering will drive him mad.

It is from then on, that the vision of Harry begins to haunt him. 

\----------

Captain Crozier, or rather _Francis_ , as he has now been instructed to call him, does not meet Harry’s eyes when he steps into the tent. 

They’d been camped there for several days, held as if in suspension, neither returning to the ships nor moving onwards. Only paces away is another tent, from the very last camp the men had made before dying in their sleep. With the exception, of course, of poor Mr. Little, who had lasted just long enough to peer up at Crozier with hazy eyes and murmur, “ _Close_.”

Harry had quickly found an excuse to search the rest of the camp’s remains, and set up their own tent for the coming night, politely stepping out of earshot as the first of his captain’s tears began to fall. He had left both Crozier and Silna alone for much of the evening, and is now surprised when Crozier… _Francis_ , calls him to their tent.

“Sir?” Harry asks, and if he still had a hat he imagines he would be holding it anxiously between his palms.

Francis stares up at him in silence, exhaustion lining his face in such a way that he looks ten years older. Harry stares back.

“There is no one left?” Francis asks, but doesn't really ask. They both have been keeping a list of the remaining men in their minds, crossing out every one of them with each passing mile.

“No, sir.” Harry shakes his head, “There is no one left but us.”

Something passes across the captain’s face, and the lines grow deeper, “What do you think we should do, then?”

Harry frowns. He isn’t used to being asked by a superior what they should _do_ , certainly nothing beyond medical advice. And, well, there is no longer much to give medical advice about.

“I mean do you want to still try for home?” Francis asks, his tone meant to sound pleasant, like they’ve just been stuck out in the rain, and should they either head back into the shop or keep going?

“Home?” Harry asks, because he doubts Francis means Edinburgh. Perhaps more generally a return to Britain. To the civilised world. To anything resembling society.

“Home.” Francis replies weakly, like even he is not sure what that word means anymore. Had he asked Harry two years ago, he would’ve said something cheerful about the _Erebus_ feeling like home. But they are a long way from _Erebus_ , and even farther from Fort Resolution.

Harry sighs and sits down, his bones protesting the move but welcoming the warmth of the fire. They have no option for dinner besides the cans left from the previous group, and Harry only manages to eat from them knowing starvation will kill him before lead poisoning does.

“Do you ever… dream? About any of them?” Harry asks quietly.

Francis chews at his lip, eyes remaining set on the tin in his hands, “Sometimes.” There is a long pause, “All the time, actually.”

Harry nods, “I do as well.”

There is nothing else for either of them to say: everyone they cared about on this journey has now been left to rot, as they themselves might yet do if they cannot find a new source of food.

Francis clears his throat, straightening up, “Silna knows where the nearest Inuit tribe is camped. We can go there first, and then decide what to do after.”

“That sounds like a good plan.” his voice is quiet, barely above a whisper.

“And if we reach Fort Resolution…” but Francis does not finish the sentence, instead letting his gaze wander far away. It is an idea that Harry had been slowly giving up ever since he left with Silna. Now it just feels like hollow words.

“When we reach the camp.” Harry reaffirms.

“When we reach the camp.” Francis nods slowly.

In the end, Francis chooses to stay with the group of Inuit, his face barely recognizable under a new beard, and his eyes laden with grief. Harry must look the same. They exchange a few last words, each wishing the other well, with a promise to never tell what has happened should either return to civilization. And then Harry once again treks into the wilderness with Silna, the pair of them fading into the vast unknown.

\----------

The first they hear of them is their dogs.

Night has fully set now, the darkness quickly wrapping up the last signs of the mysterious men. Just before sunset, it had become obvious to Harry and Silna that the men were white, perhaps explorers or even a band of fur traders. And then it is dark, and they must wait for the group to draw closer to discover any more.

As tense as they both are, Harry must confess he still smiles a little when a pair of dog heads appear at the edge of the fire’s light. Their great big tongues hang out lazily, as they are called to a halt, and a few of them bark when Silna stands up. She eyes them with hesitant curiosity.

At last, the leader of the men approaches to announce himself, and Harry keeps his eyes trained on the man’s gun as he speaks.

“Hello there.” the man waves cautiously, putting on an uneasy smile, “I am Captain Stewart, of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

Harry snorts, glad the men cannot see his face underneath his hood. The captain’s introduction is just as useless as a similar one he gave to Silna a long time ago; there is no _‘Her Majesty’s Royal Navy’_ to the Inuit. 

Then a large man steps forward and clears his throat, “We are foreigners on a hunt. We will not harm you.”

Harry’s eyes snap up at that: the man speaks in Inuktitut, and his pronunciation is better than Harry’s. The use of the word _‘hunt’_ is rather vague, more likely meant as a _‘trip’_ , but it is interesting all the same that the translator for these men knows to avoid formal introductions and simply say what is most important. He nods appreciatively, as does Silna.

Harry looks to Silna, who uses her signs for him to translate to the group.

“Where are you going?” he says in Inuktitut, mostly because he doesn't feel like sharing this conversation with anyone besides their translator. 

He can see the man’s eyebrows raise, “Mostly south. But as I said, we are on a hunt. We are looking for men like us.”

Harry freezes. No. It cannot be. He… he does not want to be found like this. But who else would these men be searching for, here on King William Land?

Silna must sense his fear, because she steps between them, letting Harry turn away from the group. Her words are too rounded without her tongue, but she tries her best anyway, “Go. Leave.”

The man blinks. Beside him, Captain Stewart sighs impatiently, “Petersen, what are they saying?”

Harry can feel Petersen’s eyes on him as he translates, “They say to go. To leave this place.”

A wave of groans sweeps through the men. Silna and Harry tense. 

Petersen raises his hands in mediation, “We must. It is their land.”

That earns another low chuckle from Harry, one which he tamps down on the second it slips out. He’d never realized just how obsessed Europeans were with claiming land until he’d lived in a place that belonged to no one.

Petersen’s words, however, do seem to settle the men a bit. That is until Petersen turns back to Harry and stares directly at him, this time in English, “But I will have your name, sir.”

Harry looks to Silna, who offers him a soft smile. It is up to him on whether or not to tell these men the truth. Undoubtedly, if he gives them his real name they will want to know everything, including if there are any others alive. And Harry is not sure how well he can lie under the pressure of an entire crew’s worth of men.

He braces himself, and steps again into the light, slowly lifting his hood away so he can meet Captain Stewart’s eyes.

There is a cry from the men, and then someone is rushing towards him, “ _Harry?_ ”

He blinks, his mind struggling to identify why the voice sounds so familiar. And when it does, his brother’s face suddenly appears in the glow of the light, and everything else falls away, as his feet carry him forward, “ _Robert!_ ”

His brother is shivering, mittens cold as he sinks them into the warm fur of Harry’s coat, and Harry can feel tears sliding down both their cheeks as they clutch each other in a tight embrace. He lets out a sob.

“It’s you! You’re… you’re real! You’re here!” Robert says, his eyes shining as he takes a proper look at Harry’s face. Somewhere behind Robert, the rest of the men have figured out what has happened and are now cheering.

“Oh God,” Harry gasps, wiping his eyes, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I could say the same of you.” Robert chuckles, scrubbing his own face of tears.

Harry finds himself laughing as well, giddy off emotions he hasn’t felt in years. His hands won’t leave his brother’s side, “How… how is Mother? And John, and Jane? And…”

“They’re fine, of course they’re fine.” Robert says, “Missing you though. As was I.”

“Evidently so.” Harry beams, and _christ_ he hadn't realized just how much he missed his brother until now. All at once he feels like he has sailed right back to Scotland, with Robert there to greet him before they take the train back to Edinburgh.

But then he is back in the present, and he belatedly realizes Silna has just been standing there awkwardly. He takes a step back, motioning excitedly between the two, “Silna, this is my brother!” and then in English, “Robert, this is my… uhh… my friend!”

Robert eyes Silna warily, and Harry quickly adds, “She’s the reason I’m alive. She’s how I stayed alive all this time.”

The expression of Robert’s face changes immediately, and his smile returns, “Oh! Well, would you tell her I’m thankful?”

Harry laughed, “You can tell her yourself.”

Robert pauses, then cautiously nods towards Silna, taking his hat in his hands, “Thank you, ma’am.” he presses his hands together, bowing his head, “Thank you.”

Silna has not had much practice with English, but she knows that phrase quite well. She nods back, offering a shy smile.

A hand slaps Harry on the back, and he jumps, turning to see Captain Stewart, “Well done, lad. Good to see you hale and hearty!”

“Oh, umm, yes.” Harry gulps, “Quite.”

The captain throws back a laugh, so different now from when he thought he’d been speaking to an Inuit, and goes back to speak to his men, “I’d say we’ve done quite the job today. Let’s make camp and treat this boy to some proper English food.”

As the men cheer and set about distributing their supplies, Harry glances at Robert with a worried look.

“Don’t worry,” Robert winks at him, “I’ve brought along some good food, too.”

And Harry laughs, because he hasn’t felt so full of light in a very long time. And because, after years of ice and rocks, it will be nice to set his feet in a warm Discovery Service tent.

\----------

“I’m a proper surgeon now,” Robert reports, digging into his food with gusto, “That’s my role onboard the _Lady Franklin_.”

Harry tsks playfully, “Took you long enough. I fully expect you now to give John a proper run for his position as Professor of Anatomy.”

“No you don’t. The whole lot of you, Father included, have been egging me to start my own practice since before I can remember.”

“I suppose you could do that, in addition.” Harry grins, “Now if we can get the rest of the lot to study at Edinburgh College…”

Robert groans dramatically, “Good Lord, could you imagine having John as one of your professors?”

They both make sounds of disgust.

Silna watches them from across the small tent with mild amusement, having refrained from eating either English or Scottish food.

Harry coughs, setting aside his plate, “Not hungry?”

Silna rolls her eyes, a habit which she has definitely picked up from him, and waves between them with a small grin. She then presses her hands together.

“Oh, I see.” Harry smiles, “She’s laughing at us because we’re so similar.”

“Oh.” Robert blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. Which must also be a very Goodsir–thing to do, because Silna’s smile only grows wider.

“So,” Robert rubs his hands together as he finishes his meal, “I suppose in the morning we can break camp and continue the search?” 

Harry’s fork skitters across his plate, and he blinks down at it. The hand that’d been holding it shakes slightly.

In the heady rush of reuniting with Robert, he had almost forgotten where they were. What had happened. What he would have to tell Captain Stewart and his men the moment he left this little tent.

Two different hands fall on Harry’s shoulders as the first of the spams rock his body, the air leaving his lungs and his pulse pounding in his ears. Harry curses silently, trying to will himself through the fit.

It’s been years since Robert has seen him like this. He would’ve thought he’d gotten over them, had the spasms not returned in full force that night after Carnivale. Whatever broke then has never healed, and it is because of this that both Robert and Silna now know the signs before he does, quietly rubbing his shoulders as tears fall anew and unbidden. He shudders with each breath, his arms feeling like they are no longer his.

Slowly, someone pulls him into a grounding hug, a nose nuzzling his thick curls, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I should’ve guessed…” Robert does not finish, keeping his mouth shut. 

The three sit there in silence, two pairs of hands softly ushering Harry to sleep. There has been more than enough excitement for one night; the rest will have to wait till morning.

\----------

Captain Stewart is not quite as jolly a man in the morning as he is during a night of celebration. His mood only sours further as the questions he asks Harry are met with increasingly vague answers.

“What happened to the ships?” _They were both abandoned to the ice._

“Do you know where they might be?” _No sir, I do not remember the last coordinates._

“What has happened to Sir John Franklin?” _He died quite some time ago._

“What! How?” _A bear, sir._

“A polar bear?” _Yes sir._

Captain Stewart huffs a sigh of frustration, running a hand through his tangled hair, “Do you at least know if there are any other survivors?”

Harry stops, knowing what answer he must give, but unsure how to tell it without revealing himself to be a terrible liar. Finally, he looks Captain Stewart straight in the eye, and decides to go for broke, “No.”

Everyone in the group gasps. The frustration in the captain’s eyes turns to shock, “None?”

Harry straightens his back, head held high. If he is to do this, he must do it right, “None, sir. And if I had not met Silna, I too would have perished in this place.” his eyes turn towards the horizon, “I found them all. Dead, mostly of the elements or scurvy. And…” he looks back at the captain, “Many of us suffered from lead poisoning.”

The surprise hits its mark, and Captain Stewart sits forward, “Lead poisoning?”

“The cans.” Harry simply says, and this seems to mean something to the men, because they exchange looks between them. Off to his right, Robert looks downright pale. 

“Y-you,” Captain Stewart coughs, attempting to recenter himself, “You are the only survivor, you are _absolutely certain_ of this? What of the others… Captain Crozier and Commander Fitzjames?”

“All dead.” Harry bites out, “They are all dead, and gone.”

There is complete silence. Harry is very glad Silna left the group that morning to go fishing. He has a suspicion this would be around the time his fellow countrymen start casting suspicious glances at her.

“Silna saved me,” he continues, “She found me lying half-dead amongst my fellow crewmates, the lot of us too ill to walk another step. It was her and the nearby Inuit tribe that took care of me and raised me back to health.”

Captain Stewart nods absently, “I see. Yes, I shall have Petersen relay our thanks if we meet up with them. Can…?” the reality of Harry’s news seems to finally be sinking in, and he sighs, “Can you take us to your crewmates’ final resting spots? Or anything, really, any leftover camps or artifacts. Something that could help us identify all who have been lost.”

Harry frowns, “You will not be able to carry over 100 bodies out of this place. The burden is too heavy.”

“Dammit, then at least point us in the general direction of the ships!” Captain Stewart’s fists land on a crate they’ve been using as a table, his fingers circling the general area around King William Land’s shore, “Surely you must know even a basic location!”

“Captain.” Robert manages weakly.

“Goodsir,” Captain Stewart points in warning, “I understand he is your brother, but I was tasked with finding the Admiralty’s lost officers, and especially Sir John and the missing ships. That is what the rewards are for; that is why we are here.”

Harry’s fingers tighten against his sides. A reward. Of course. It had been stupid of him to think otherwise. Robert and some of the other men might’ve come in search of lost loved ones, but the majority of this group would not have entered such dangerous territory without considerable motive. But that is not what truly angers him. 

They are here to find the _officers_. They had rejoiced at finding Harry for Robert’s sake, yes, but also because he is an officer. If the only remaining person they’d found had been someone like Tom Hartnell or John Morfin, would they have been so glad?

“I apologise, lad,” Captain Stewart says, “It is the hard truth of it, but there it is. Now didn’t you mention that some of the men had stayed onboard the ships? They might still be alive.”

_Oh god._ Harry feels a sick lurch to his stomach. He’d forgotten about them entirely.

“R-right.” he clears his throat, placing a shaky finger in the general area that he can recall the captains saying they’d landed. He dearly wishes he had paid more attention, but navigation simply had not been the most pressing issue when they were stuck in the pack. He now knows a good chunk of King William Land by heart just from traveling with Silna, but in those two years that they’ve wandered, they never did return towards the ships. Mostly because there were a number of skeletons in that direction, and because neither of them wanted to relive any memories.

Captain Stewart gives him a grateful, if harried, thanks, before scribbling something on the map and turning back to his men. Harry belatedly realises he has also pointed them in the direction of the Tunnbaq’s corpse, but for the sake of any men who might’ve survived onboard the _Erebus_ , he keeps his mouth closed. 

“Right, well we’d best get moving.” the captain announces, and the men begin to pack up the last of their things. But Harry continues to sit on his crate, staring down at where the map had been and fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Harry?” Robert asks, rubbing his shoulder, “I’m… I’m so sorry about that. They shouldn’t have pressed so harshly. But it will all be better soon, I promise.”

His words sound foreign, containing a strength of certainty that Harry has not heard in a long time. He lets Robert lead him away from the group.

“What do you mean, it will all be better soon?” Harry asks distantly.

Robert brightens, “We’ll be going home, of course! After we find the _Terror_ and the _Erebus_ , but…” he rubs Harry’s shoulder lightly, “Then it’ll be back to good old Edinburgh. Mother will be so happy to see you! And John and Jane and…”

“Yes,” Harry mumbles, “Yes I suppose they would.”

Robert watches him closely, smile fading as the first signs of confusion take hold, “It will be alright, Harry. It’s over now. We can go home!”

And there’s that word again. ‘Home’ feels just as hollow as it had a year ago, sitting in Francis’ tent and being asked where he wanted to go. But back then the thought of civilization was like a mirage, a dream they’d both conjured up in a fit of half-madness, the real world consisting of nothing but endless miles of rock. 

Now Robert is here, and home is _tangible_. He’s wearing a sweater that their mother embroidered his initials onto years ago one Christmas, and he still smells vaguely of rainy days stuck on the moors, his hands still soft from a tender upbringing and skillful with the tools of their trade. When he thinks of Robert holding a scalpel, it is to heal and to help, not to butcher a body. When Robert goes back to Scotland, and picks up a bone saw, it will be to conduct surgery in some well-established theatre, with colleagues observing his careful touch. It will not be to break bones open so as to get out the marrow.

“Robert,” he says quietly, “I do not know if I can return.”

Robert looks stunned, “What? Of course you can, where else would you go?”

Harry winces. Part of him wishes he could just stop, smile, and let Robert take him back. He would have to cut his hair and trim his beard, and take so many baths the years of grime scrape off like a snake’s skin. But what would he find underneath? If he looks in the mirror, and the man staring back at him looks like the old Harry, will the lines of age and sorrow appear too odd against his clean skin?

“Harry… Harry, come on.” Robert rubs his arms, pulling him out of his thoughts, “Please look at me. What’s going on?” his pause is weighty, before he softly asks, “It is the Netsilik woman?”

Silna. She will be back any minute now, and Harry abruptly realizes he does not want to leave her alone in this place: she has already lost the only family she once had, and then her own community. To condemn her to isolation…

Whatever Robert sees in his face seems to be more than enough confirmation and he sighs, “Oh Harry…”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, “No, it’s not… I can’t just leave her here!”

“You love her.” It is a statement, not a question.

“Robert…”

“So take her with us! She’d probably be a better guide anyway, and just think of all the things you could show her back home!”

A deeply ironic chuckle escapes Harry’s lips, and he hates himself for it. Once he had said much the same to Silna, wishing he could take her back to London, just to see that people weren’t like this. That normal people, not pressed into such dire measures, could be wonderful and caring and kind.

But now he has noticed the glances Captain Stewart’s men cast at Silna when they think she is not looking. Remembers the shelf of trinkets his crewmates left at her door, out of either superstition or fear. No… no, Britain would not be kind to Silna. Either in its customs or in the minds of its people. 

“What about our family? What about… _christ_ , what about Mother?” Robert asks, and Harry’s heart aches. He cannot begin to imagine what their mother would feel if she learned that her son had somehow survived, miraculously lived against all odds, and then chose _not to come back home_. 

Perhaps he can visit? Maybe it would be enough to see his family once more, to let them confirm that he is whole and healthy, and then he can return. Or, really, he could go anywhere he wants. Silna wouldn’t even have to leave the ship, and after visiting his family, they could sail away to wherever they wished to go.

But Silna has been hurt by enough white men with hard hearts to last a lifetime; no, he will not subject her to any more. That is something she will have to decide for herself. 

Once Harry had made the decision to leave his world behind and join hers, no matter the dangers or consequences. And again, when he had to say his final farewell to Francis, he did not look behind. It is time, again, to make a decision, and he knows deep in his heart it will be the same as all those before.

As if she can sense they’re talking about her, Silna rounds the corner of a tent and stops dead in her tracks upon seeing the look in Harry’s eyes. She glances at Robert questioningly.

Robert sighs, then turns towards Harry with a sad smile, “How do I tell her in her language that I’m sorry?”

It is too much. Harry cannot help the torn thing between a laugh and a sob that escapes his mouth as he replies, “ _Mamianaq._ ”

\----------

Robert nods, then looks towards Silna, “ _Mamianaq._ ”

He is sure he has butchered it, because the look she shoots Harry reduces him to another strangled laugh, and then she shakes her head tiredly and sets down the fish she has caught. She uses her hands to make some sort of gesture, and Harry nods, turning back to Robert, “She wants to know what you’re sorry about.”

Robert finds his own hands moving in gesture, as if to try and impart his meaning across the language barrier, “Tell her I’m sorry–”

Harry shakes his head, “Tell her yourself.” His voice is gentle but firm now, and something has changed in his eyes. If it hadn’t been clear before, it is blindingly obvious now in the way his brother gazes softly at Silna. And Robert’s heart sinks. 

Because he should’ve seen all along, from the very beginning when Harry first excitedly announced he’d been picked to go on the expedition, that his brother would fall in love. Not just Silna, but with nature itself. With this great white nothingness, and all its rare plants and animals. Nothing lived here that did not want to keep living her:; it was the real reason his brother had managed to survive. Where all the others had failed, Harry had looked into the Arctic wastes and found beauty.

Robert feels a sad smile cross his lips, and he meets Silna with his eyes, “I just wanted to say, I’m sorry I didn’t congratulate you sooner. You’re the only woman I know who’s managed to beat out Nature for my brother’s lasting affections.”

“Robert!” Harry gapes, but dutifully offers a rough translation. Silna’s eyebrow raises, but there is a hint of a smile, as if she and Robert are in on some shared joke at Harry’s expense. 

Then Harry turns to her, and says something that Robert cannot parse, but for the singular English word “Britain”. Silna’s smile disappears, and she worries at her lip, glancing between the two of them.

“What did you say?” he asks, because his brother is entirely unpredictable at this point, and apparently fluent in a whole new language.

“I told her about your offer. To return to Britain.” Harry says. _Britain… not home._ “And I also said it’s her choice,” he finishes meaningfully.

Ah. There it is, the final piece of the puzzle. And oh how it is such a very Goodsir–thing to do, to be presented with a decision that will change one’s entire life, and place it in the hands of the person they most trust.

Silna begins to sign again, “Your world will not welcome me, it has no place for me there.”

Robert nods, and simply listens.

“I am happy you two were able to come together again, to find each other. But I cannot go with you or your men. This is my home, and I am called here, just as you are called to return to yours.”

It all seems so simple when she explains it, and her clarity hits Robert like a thunderbolt. He points to Harry, “And him… he is called here as well.”

It is a statement, not a question. The two nod anyway.

\----------

When Harry was preparing to board the _Erebus_ back in Greenhithe, none of his family had been able to make it down to see him off. That was fine; he’d said plenty of goodbyes back home in Edinburgh, but there was still a small part of him that felt lonely as he carried his bags up the gangplank, watching other sailors hug their loved ones farewell. 

That memory belongs to a different Harry, one who kept his best suit tucked away for when he’d be needing it coming off the _Erebus_ upon return. That Harry polished his shoes and eagerly awaited a quiet afternoon to tuck into one of the many books the _Erebus_ had in its library. That Harry was younger, kinder perhaps, certainly a lot shyer. And in some ways, Harry is glad he is no longer him.

But with growth has come maturity through sorrow. The trauma of the past weighs on him heavily, and no amount of warm days in Scotland or banquet halls full of food would ever be able to fix that

So although he is sad when he sees the search party go, it is with the knowledge that every decision he’ll have to make will be difficult, but at least this one will be right.

“I swear I will come back and strong-arm you myself to the nearest settlement if you do not write back to me before this next Christmas.” Robert laughs, and sobs, as he clutches Harry in his arms. It is Harry’s turns to rub a soothing hand over his shoulders.

“I promise! I promise I will find a way to write to you.” Harry laughs, and pats his brother on the back, “But you must promise me to stay somewhere warm, and…”

“Begin my own practice, I know, I know.” Robert grins, “In addition to taking John’s position, of course.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Harry beams.

Robert sniffles, and rubs at his nose, “I do wish you the very best happiness. I really do.”

“I know,” Harry smiles softly, “Everything will be alright, I promise.”

It is enough. It will have to be enough, because Petersen is giving the order for his dogs to move, and Captain Stewart is eager to be on his way. Robert envelopes Harry in one last hug and waves at Silna, and then he is off running to catch up with the others, shouting goodbyes as the group heads away.

They watch till the men are but a small dot on the landscape, and then Harry turns to Silna, his eyes shining in the pale Arctic light.

“So where should we go now?” he asks, because there is nothing else left to say.

Silna shrugs and sweeps her hand across the horizon. _Anywhere we like_.

And Harry laughs, a full and joyous thing. Because perhaps he has finally found a place for his soul to settle. Perhaps, he has finally found home.

**Author's Note:**

> You can read Robert's actual journal entries [here](https://finger-post.blog/robert-goodsir-australasian-part-two/). 
> 
> Sidenotes: _kakpik_ is the Inuktitut word for a needle case, which is the closest Harry is able to get to describing a “home for needles” as it were. Mostly Silna just finds him trying to pronounce her language with a Scottish brogue to be incredibly hilarious. (Yes, in my fics Harry is always a proper Scottish lad; they’ll be no British accent in my Harry D.S. Goodsir!)
> 
> Also I just really loved the image of Silna dangling Harry out into the ocean so he can become a narwhal shish-kebab.
> 
> Technically speaking the leader of the rescue expedition was William Penny, but it was Stewart who was leading the land party when they found the graves on Beechey Island. It felt simpler to just keep the names of the search party down to two. 
> 
> _Also_ also, in case you wanted more to cry about, Harry and Robert’s younger brother Archibald was studying in Germany in 1849 to get his MD. Unfortunately, and as far as I know not to the knowledge of Robert, poor Archibald died while there in Germany. So Robert would’ve gone to find Harry during 1849-1850, and then been forced to come back home only to find out another brother died as well. *begins passing out tissues* 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated! Let me know if there are any errors, or come cry with me over our poor Mr. Goodsir. <3


End file.
